


life is more than just a waiting game

by acrossthesky_instars



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, leap year au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-08 05:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4293072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acrossthesky_instars/pseuds/acrossthesky_instars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>chasing her boyfriend to Ireland to propose to him on February 29th doesn't go quite as planned, or the one where Clarke and Bellamy are strangers who end up on the worlds most disastrous road trip together</p><p>Leap Year AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. we're perfect, aren't we?

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo, I decided to try my hand at a multi-chapter fic, promise I'll do my best updating it if you guys like it so let me know! :)  
> Kudos and comments always appreciated :) hope you enjoy!

‘Ready? Aaaaand… eww.’

‘Excuse me?’ Clarke Griffin stared, shocked, at her boyfriend of four years stood opposite her on the neat door step and brandishing his phone in her direction.

‘Oh, not you, honey. A photo just came through from work, would you look at that?’

Clarke grimaced and pulled away when he tried to show her. It wasn’t that she wasn’t proud- because she most definitely was- of Finn and his cardiology, but she didn’t need to see the not-so-appealing proof of it all the time.

And definitely not now, as they stood in the doorway to the Davenport, buzzing with excitement that she was on the literal and proverbial threshold of all her dreams _finally_ coming true. They’d just come out of an interview with the Board, in competition for the most perfect apartment Clarke had ever seen. She was sure even her mother would agree. She’d stated boldly about how ‘in sync’ she was with their ‘exceptionally high standards’ and only felt slightly sick at the ring of her mother’s voice in hers.

She shook it off, and turned to the boyfriend so absorbed in his phone. ‘Do you think they liked us?’

‘Hmm? Oh, of course they did! _I_ like us.’

Clarke nodded and smiled. ‘That’s because we’re perfect, aren’t we?’

Finn glanced at her and smiled, before continuing down the road. ‘Meh, we’re alright’.

Clarke sighed to herself and skipped a little to keep up in her heels. ‘Have you packed yet? You don’t want to miss your flight.’

He waved a hand in her direction, and this time didn’t even look up. She felt a pang of annoyance that she quickly smothered. ‘It’s all sorted, sweet. Just you don’t be late this evening, and we’ll be fine. Don’t want you stressed for our _very_ special dinner.’ At this, he did look up and winked at her.

Clarke felt her heart swell a little for him when he looked at her like that, all earnest eyes and the soft smile she knew so well. She was _so_ not going to ruin this special dinner.

She’d bought a new dress, altered and everything for the evening, and was going to be shaved and perfected to within an inch of her life. Her best friend, Raven, had barrelled into her apartment the other day, as always, and wouldn’t let her forget it if she wanted to.

‘Clarke!’ She’d all but screeched in a very un-Raven-like way. ‘Guess who I just saw coming out of DePriscos?’

She’d only been half listening until she heard the name of the jewellery shop, and her wedding-tuned ears pricked. Her heart skipped a beat.

‘What? Who?’ She jumped up to meet her friend.

‘Finn! He was carrying the little red bag and everything. And you know there’s only one reason people go to Depriscos; you’re going to have a bigger engagement ring than me, you bitch!’

‘Oh, my god. Oh, my God!’ Raven grabbed her hands and they squealed in unison.

‘Did you have any clue?’

Clarke peered at her through the fingers pressed to her flushed cheeks. ‘Well, I did set up a few subscriptions for the apartment…’

Raven interrupted. ‘Oh, my god, we have to practice your surprised face!’

‘Okay, okay,’ Clarke turned away and then whipped her face back round, eyes and mouth exaggeratedly wide. ‘How’s this?’

Raven pulled a face in return. ‘What, are you scared? Try again. Maybe add a little ‘who, me?’’

Clarke repeated the action and this time pursed her lips prettily and batted her eyelashes.

Raven laughed and patted her on the arm, ‘The good news is, you’ve got plenty of time to practice.’

******

The bar Clarke was meeting her father was not the kind of place she usually went to in Boston. It was dark and faintly dingy, the bar was sticky with god-knows-what (she wiped it with the napkin that came with her martini) and a jukebox was mumbling classic rock in the corner.

The bearded man sat a few stools down shuffled closer and nudged her. ‘Buy you a drink, love?’

She flushed, hit with a wave of his not-so-fresh smell and trying to hide it. ‘Oh no, thank you. I’ve got a boyfriend.’ She smiled to herself, unable to resist, ‘actually, we’re getting engaged.’

Jake Griffin chose that moment to waltz into the bar. Punctuality was not his strong point, but apparently he had perfect timing.

‘Engaged? My little girl? Congratulations, Clarkey!’ He swept her up into his arms, right off the stool, and then sat her back down precariously. Clarke righted herself and took a fortifying sip.

‘Dad, hi. I, uh, about Finn and I..’

But her father was already leaning across the bar and offering his hand for her charming neighbour to shake. ‘I’m Jake, and this is Clarkey. Where is Finn, anyway?’

‘He’s packing, Dad’, she said, exasperated. ‘He’s got a medical conference in Ireland.’

‘Ireland, hey!’ Jake exclaimed. ‘‘Bout time he came to his senses, four years they’ve been together! Proposed to her mother after three weeks, I did. Might have had to follow in your Grandma’s footsteps and chase him to Ireland this weekend to take matters into your own hands.’

Clarke swallowed. ‘Dad, this is a stupid story, stop.’

Jake carried on like he hadn’t heard her. He waved her away with a hand that narrowly missed her martini. She clasped the glass tightly to her like the rock to her sanity it felt like. ‘It’s the honest to God truth. They were Irish, don’t you know’ he said to Beardy, who was listening intently on Clarke’s other side, ‘but he’d been dilly-dallying around not proposing, and oh, you know what it was like in those days! But the Irish have this great tradition where every four years- every leap year- on February the 29th, the women propose to the men! So, Clarkey here’s Grandma chased him halfway across Ireland, asked him herself, and BOOM, signed, sealed, delivered.’

Clarke went to rest her head on the bar, and then thought better of it. She’d tired of hearing this story when she was about six. Not that Jake seemed to notice, or mind. He loved her very much, that she was sure of, but practicality and awareness had never been his defining qualities.

She stood up, and swung her expensive bag onto her shoulder. ‘Dad, I’ve got to go.’

‘What?’ he cried, looking for all his life like she’d just broken his heart. ‘But I only just got here!’

‘Yes, but you were late, and I’ve got plans with Finn tonight that I can’t miss.’ _Really can’t miss it now_ , she thought.

Her father smiled genially at her upon hearing Finn’s name. ‘Ah, can’t keep loverboy waiting! Give my new son-in-law my love!’ He chuckled at himself, and Clarke barely held back a wince. She bent to peck his cheek as she left, and he patted her fondly, already engrossed in whatever Beardy was saying.

******

Clarke had to admit, the restaurant Finn had picked, tastefully decorated and adorned with _just_ the right amount of candles, was especially lovely. And, she thought proudly, so was her dress. Even the colours complimented each other nicely. Tonight was going to be _perfect_.

He sat opposite her, perusing her menu and glancing up occasionally to smile his secret little smile. She pretended not to notice, but felt excitement fizz in her just the same. She bit the inside of her cheeks to stop a nervous giggle escaping.

He cleared his throat significantly, and set his menu down neatly. ‘Listen, Clarke, I just wanted to say, I know I’ve got a crazy schedule, and things don’t always work out the way we planned’- Clarke laughed airily at this like it wasn’t the massive understatement it was- ‘but I hope you know how much I appreciate you. And, well, in case you don’t, this is for you.’

He pulled a little square box out of his front pocket and placed it carefully on the table between him. In retrospect, Clarke would realise this was the first sign things were not going the way she wanted- he didn’t exactly rush to get down on one knee.

She reached for the jewellery box anyway, and pulled the little tab open, her heart in her throat. _This is it_ , she thought, _this is finally my moment_.

She saw the diamond first, or the diamonds. Her heart swelled and then deflated like a popped balloon, shocked disappointment radiating through her suddenly cavernous chest.

‘Earrings,’ she said flatly. ‘For your ears.’

He beamed at her, so obviously pleased with himself. ‘Do you like them?’

She met his eyes shakily, ‘Oh, yeah of course! They’re beautiful.’

He looked at her expectantly, ‘Go on then, put them on.’

‘Oh, of course’, she parroted, and fumbled to take out her current pair. Her hands were sweating.

His phone nudged the gleaming cutlery on the table when it buzzed, and he picked it up, his attention diverted enough for her to relax her frozen face for a moment and pull herself together.

‘Oh man,’ he said, earrings already forgotten, ‘look at this. Total mess.’

She waved the phone away when he pointed it at her. ‘Honey, not at the table.’

‘Oh yeah, sorry,’ he murmured, already tapping out a reply to his colleague before looking back at her.

‘So, uh- actually hang on,’ his phone lit up again and he laughed. ‘Phil says I _aorta_ go in, get it?’

Clarke gave a fragile kind of laugh that sounded mechanical to her ears, but that Finn obviously accepted as airy, and said nothing.

‘I won’t, obviously. Right yeah, so, about the apartment-‘ he cut off again to look back at his phone.

Clarke sighed, feeling like his mother, not his girlfriend. _And definitely not his fiancée_.

‘Honey, maybe you _aorta_ go in?’

He gave her the same grin he had when she saw the earrings, his chair already scraping away from the table. ‘Oh, Clarke, you’re a hero. I’m so, so sorry to do this, I know how important tonight was to you.’

_To me? It was supposed to be important to both of us. For both of us._ But she only smiled weakly.

‘Listen, I’ll probably have to go straight to the airport when I’m done, but I’ll see you soon.’ He bent to kiss her forehead. ‘The earrings look beautiful. Love you, babe.’

‘Love you.’

And he left, leaving Clarke with nothing to do but down the rest of her wine.

_Happy non-engagement to me, then_.

And as she lay in bed that night, the moonlight played across her bed and her father’s words played across her mind. She shifted onto her side, but peace eluded her agitated mind. All she could see, framed by the rays through her blinds, were Finn’s earrings.

_…The Irish have this great leap year tradition…_

Maybe she really would have to take matters into her own hands. Even if she was taking her father at his word.

_….every four years, on February the 29 th…_

Clarke sat up violently and yanked her computer from where it filled Finn’s empty space. She opened Google and typed with almost savage precision.

‘Leap Day Customs and Traditions’, ’10 Things about the 29th February’, ‘Leap Year: How I Proposed to my Boyfriend’- the results were extensive; even Wikipedia had a page on it.

‘Ridiculous,’ she muttered.

Clarke closed the tabs, and opened Expedia.

She deserved a holiday anyway.


	2. a funny little pub called Blake's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> apparently it's bad luck to start a journey on a saturday (and Clarke meets Bellamy)

‘Business or pleasure?’

Clarke looked up from her hastily printed travel notes with a small start. Really, she supposed, it must be a testament to her and Finn’s truest of true loves that she hadn’t even noticed the cute guy in the beanie sat next to her until he spoke.

She smiled prettily at him. ‘Oh, neither. I’m going to propose to my boyfriend on February the 29th.’

He looked a little startled at her airy tone but other than a raised eyebrow, he seemed to take her unusual response in stride. ‘Are you now?’

Clarke supposed his half question was probably just out of politeness, but it was exactly the wrong thing to say to her when she was tired and nervous after a sleepless night.

‘It’s not like I’m rushing into things,’ she hurried to say, ‘we’ve been together four years. Four amazing years, don’t get me wrong. Finn- that’s my boyfriend- he’s a cardiologist, and you wouldn’t _believe_ how busy…’

Half an hour later, Miller of the Beanie was wishing he’d never opened his mouth.

‘…I mean, he bought me _earrings_. Would _you_ buy earrings for a girl you’d been with for four years? Were buying an apartment with?’

Miller murmured his dissent, and it seemed to be enough to fuel her tirade. That, he kind of regretted.

By the end of the next hour, he could have built a perfect replica of their bloody apartment, from the floor plans down to the fancy light fittings. He was, however, asleep.

The pilot chose that moment, _thank god_ , to put a stop to Clarke’s ravings through the speakers.

‘Afternoon, folks. It looks like there’s a spot of bad weather ahead. Nothing to worry about, but we might experience a little bit of turbulence.’

He hadn’t even finished the announcement before the plane dropped, taking Clarke’s stomach and the lights with it. A hostess scurried past, her white knuckles like tiny panic beacons on the seat tops in the dimness.

Then her oxygen mask hit her squarely on the head and she squeaked.

‘I’m getting engaged. I’m not going to die without getting engaged!’

The speakers crackled again, and the pilot’s voice filtered through, perhaps slightly more unsteadily.

‘I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, it seems I may have slightly underestimated the storm. But, don’t worry, we’ve been diverted to Cardiff, Wales. Once we’re safely grounded, we’ll assist you in finding alternative arrangements to get you the rest of the way to your final destination. Once again, I apologise for the inconvenience.’

‘Wales?’ Clarke stuttered. ‘We can’t be landing in _Wales!_ ’

Miller looked at her, stunned and faintly appalled. ‘At least we’re landing at all.’

‘Yes,’ Clarke barely glanced at him, ‘but I’m on a schedule.’

******

Clarke had tried everything. She’d marched through the airport with her pull-along case in tow, argued with a few too many check-in assistants, and still hadn’t found a plane that would go to Ireland.

She’d chatted British politics that she didn’t understand with the antsy Welshman at the ferry terminal and not even the extra button on the blouse that she’d loosened- she’d kind of resented herself for doing it- had done any good.

And now, here she was, cowering in the shabbily sheltered bridge of the only fishing boat brave and stupid enough to go out in these conditions, as the waves crashed over her Louboutins and the thunder drowned out her mutterings, cursing Ireland and the weather and aeroplanes and ferries and even Finn Collins.

‘We’re going to have to go into Dingle.’ The fisherman shouted at her from the yellow raincoat that didn’t seem to be doing much against the torrent.

Clarke didn’t think she’d even been so wet, or so cold, but she tried weakly to argue. Her stubbornness suddenly didn’t seem like her greatest trait.

‘But I paid for Cork!’

She’d barely got the protestation out before a huge wave crashed over the side of the boat. _Now_ she was colder.

‘Okay’- when she nodded, her hair flopped, almost black, into her mascara-streaked eyes- ‘Dingle’ll do.’

******

It was hardly heaven, but she supposed this might be what seeing the pearly gates would feel like.

The sign above the wide windows, midnight blue walls and brass-knocker-topped russet door proclaimed the bar was ‘Blake’s’. It felt like she knocked into every table in the beer garden with her case as she trudged her way up, her shoes already covered in mud from the beach clearly not designed with stilettos in mind. If she was feeling kinder, she’d call it quaint, maybe homely. But her patience had been lost somewhere over the frigid Atlantic, and she’d kill for a hot bath and her bed and her sketchbook. God knows how far away Dublin was from here, never mind Boston.

The wave of warmth that accompanied the tinkling bell when she pushed open the heavy door was more than welcome though. She liked the smell of the place, like home cooking and smoke from the fireplace and the barest hint of the sea.

‘…you can take the man out of the fish, but you can’t take the fish out of the water!’

Raucous laughter broke out from the trio at the bar, two of whom were men, a skinny guy black hair that had been teased every which way and was topped somewhat oddly with a pair of goggles, and a cute Asian with eyes that glowed even across the room and a smile that went part of the way to soothing Clarke’s ruffled feathers. The third was a tall brunette who looked somehow both enchanting and delicate and like she could crush you beneath her laced black boots. They were clustered around a small table of what looked like beers at the end of the bar, leaning sloppily on each other and giggling like the good friends Clarke thought they must be.

‘Excuse me?’ Clarke called out tentatively. ‘Are you open?’

The one with the goggles leaned forward and scanned her from head to toe. ‘Australian.’

The girl snorted and raised an eyebrow. ‘South-African.’

‘Actually, she’s American.’ She didn’t mention anything about their lilting Irish accents, but took it as her cue to go further into the pub. ‘I was wondering if any of you would be able to tell me how to get to Dublin from here.’

‘1987.’ That was Goggles again.

‘I’m sorry?’ She looked blankly at him, way too exhausted and drained to think.

‘That’s the year the last Dublin bus left Dingle.’

Her heart sank, but the other boy had already leant forward, shaking his head.

‘No, no, no. The _trains_ stopped in ’87, the buses were ’89,’ he argued. The girl rolled her eyes, but the boys carried on their bickering. Clarke looked to the bar instead.

As soon as she noticed him, she didn’t know how she hadn’t before. He _commanded_ a presence. It could’ve been the flickering light, or her weary, jetlagged eyes, but either way, his was the kind of face that struck her with an almost physical blow. His eyes were dark and cut right through her in a way she _really_ didn’t like, a pen dangled from between his almost bared teeth in a way she _thought_ she didn’t like and his hair curled riotously in a way she traitorously thought that she _could_ like.

She swallowed her sudden nervousness. ‘I-I’m sorry, is there a taxi service or something somewhere?’

His smirk, precarious pen and all, did not change, but he pulled a business card from behind him and slid it across the bar to her in silence.

She picked it up and started to turn away, hating the way her voice shook when she asked if there was a phone. It was the girl who took pity on her and pointed to an ancient looking payphone tucked away in the corner.

She dragged her case over and used her fingertips to pick up the old handset and dial. It rang once and then clicked as someone picked up and grunted. _Charming_. _Got to love Ireland_.

‘Hello, I was wondering if I might order a taxi to Dublin. I’m in Dingle in a funny little pub called Blake’s- at least I think that’s what it’s called- and I’ll pay- what do you mean you don’t drive blondes? How do you know my hair colour-‘

She spun around with a frown. The bartender waved the phone in his hand obnoxiously and she bit back her glare.

‘Right, you’re the taxi driver.’ He made a big show of hanging up the phone ostentatiously and she realised she was still talking into the handset.

‘Listen, I need you to drive me Dublin.’

‘Dublin,’ he repeated, his deep voice both melodic in his accent and flat in his disinterest.

She nodded and opened her mouth, stepping forward again, but he didn’t let her speak.

‘Let me tell you something about Dublin. It’s a city full of chancers and cheats and backstabbing snakes, where the absolute worst of humanity collect. I wouldn’t drive you to Dublin if you paid me €500.’

The girl shifted and smirked, and Clarke saw a sudden resemblance to the bartender in her piercing eyes. ‘Christ, I’d sell my husband for €500.’

The Asian boy snorted. ‘Like hell you would.’

Clarke opened her arms and spread them wide. ‘Anyone else want to drive me?’

Goggles stood up. ‘I’m your guy, Blondie.’ He then promptly fell into the bar and slopped his drink all down himself.

The other guy propped his chin in his hand and widened his eyes significantly at her. ‘It’s bad luck to start a journey on a Saturday,’ he commented.

_Bit late for that_ , Clarke thought.

The girl groaned. ‘Tuesday, Monty, on a Tuesday.’

From his position slumped against the bar, legs akimbo, Goggles piped up. ‘It’s Sunday, you know.’

Clarke sighed internally, or so she hoped. ‘Okay, can one of you just direct me to the nearest hotel, or bed and breakfast or something?’ There was silence again, but this time it was the one they called Monty who half-smiled at her to clue her in. This sigh was definitely external. ‘Of course. This is also a hotel.’

The bartender just looked at her for a moment, unimpressed.

The other girl coughed. ‘Bell,’ she said, for no reason Clarke could see, but the bartender flicked his eyes to her and the storm in them softened.

‘What, O?’

_Nicknames, right._

‘O’ stood up. ‘I’m heading home. Give the girl a break and get her a room.’ She rapped her knuckles sharply on the bar and Goggles snored once, apparently not finding Clarke’s trials exciting enough. ‘See you later, Jasper, Monty, Bell.’ She nodded at Clarke. ‘American.’ Clarke smiled weakly back.

The bartender- Bell, it seemed- grabbed a set of keys from behind the counter, and took off round the corner of the bar, motioning at her to follow. She scrambled to do so, struggling to manoeuvre her case. He muttered something that sounded like a very Irish obscenity and swept it from her grasp.

‘Come on,’ he grunted.

_What a gent,_ she thought, half sarcastically.

He guided her up a narrow staircase adorned with unevenly framed newspaper clippings and photos of the same group of people, of whom she only recognised him and the trio from the bar. The décor was worn and dated, but in a comfortable, well-loved way that warmed her belly.

‘Bathroom’s down the hall, flush twice. Seriously, twice.’ He led her to a room at the end of the corridor and swung open the door, flicking on the light to reveal a small, cosy room that looked lived-in in a way she was sure she wouldn’t find anywhere in Boston. The bed was small, but draped in a patchwork quilt, and it was all she could think about. Almost. She turned to her host.

‘I, er, noticed a menu on the bar?’ He gave her a disparaging look and they spoke at the same time: ‘Closed.’

She sat on the bed and stroked her hand over the soft patchwork. She dragged out the sound of her first word in a way she hoped was beguiling. ‘B _uuu_ t, given the famous Irish tradition of hospitality…’ She let the words fall away.

He closed his eyes shortly, and then strode off. ‘I’ll make you a sandwich,’ he shouted behind him.

She went to call out her thanks, but he was already gone. She glanced longingly at the bed, and then rummaged for her phone in her bag, knowing her mother would have panic-called her about thirty times by now, and, besides, it was probably time to let Finn in on her surprise visit, since God knows when she’d get to him.

But, of course, it was dead. She knew how it felt. But she dug out the charger that she’d thankfully remembered to pack for once in her life, and then searched for a plug. There wasn’t one by the bedside table, nor the drawers, or even behind the wardrobe- she’d flattened herself to the wallpaper to check. The only one she could see was down the side of the bed, which was apparently not that amenable to being moved. She stretched her hand down the side, tried to reach underneath, and shoved from every side, and it wouldn’t budge. Until it did.

And it slammed into the wardrobe opposite, which tipped forward onto the bed and spilled open, knocking clothes and boxes of paraphernalia onto the bed and spilling onto the floor, taking the knickknacks topping the chest of drawers with them. It was not exactly a quiet affair, and dust clouds flared. But a small gap had opened up, and she moved the clutter off the quilt to slot her charger neatly in the socket.

A spark flashed, just as a slice of lightening lit up the small room, and then all the light was gone, as if sucked away by the storm, or more likely, a powercut. She sat for a second, and then shifted to pull off her heels, massaging her ankles. She’d got better at balancing in them, but they still weren’t the comfiest. Something caught on her leg and she pulled out a dog-eared photograph. She recognised ‘Bell’, but not the other two pictured. It was hard to see in the darkness, but she could make out the object of his gaze, a slim, pretty girl with _her_ arm slung casually round the neck of another guy, this one sharp-featured and grinning.

The door flew open again, and bounced off the other wall. Her delightful host was framed in the shadows as he shoved a plate loaded with a sandwich and crisps at her.

‘Bloody Americans,’ he muttered sharply, just loud enough that she was supposed to hear. ‘Give me that,’ he snatched the photo from her grasp.

She jumped to her feet, embarrassed at being caught snooping in the mess she’d made but angry at his brusqueness. ‘You fried my phone!’

He shoved the plate none-too-gently into her midriff. ‘You fried the whole village!’

He towered over her as he glared, and his long legs ate up the distance as he stormed off, slamming the door loudly behind him.

‘Idiot!’

She narrowed her eyes after him and almost snarled. It was much easier to ignore what he looked like when he was being rude.

(and when it was dark). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come chat on tumblr, i'm here-isthedeepestsecret and instars-acrossthesky! xox


	3. bad luck to start a journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bellamy caves, and clarke gets her driver. both get more than they bargained for.

‘Only ‘cause you’re desperate.’

Bellamy could only look at the blonde critically, with his chin turned up and his arms folded against his own pride. She was cradling that bloody phone in her hands and she startled when she heard him.

‘I’m sorry?’

He sighed. ‘I’ll take you to Dublin.’

‘What?’ She stared dumbly at him.

_God, she was annoying_. He didn’t even try to hold back his sarcasm. ‘And here, I thought Americans spoke English.’

Her blue eyes sparked and she stood up, her phone tossed to one side and forgotten. She opened her mouth, no doubt to shout at him, but he wouldn’t let her.

‘For your €500, I’ll drive you.’

Her mouth snapped shut. ‘Fine.’

His smile didn’t have much joy in it. ‘Be outside in ten minutes.’

She scoffed, and her fire lit her up. ‘Do you have to be so rude all the time?’

He smirked at her. ‘You pay extra for the charm, Princess.’ He walked out before she could respond. ’10 minutes’.

His little car was tucked away around the corner, and he stalked toward it, swinging his keys faster and faster round his fingers. It was small and red- what he would call vintage and his sister Octavia would call old. The door hinges needed oiling and squeaked when he swung the door open, the paint was a little chipped and faded closer to pink than he’d like, and when he tried to start the car, the engine wheezed for a little too long before turning over.

He pressed the accelerator a bit too hard, and the car jolted, swinging round to the front of the bar. He stopped and sat there, tapping his fingers impatiently on the wheel while he waited.

He loved his bar, but it wasn’t usually the kind of place where Princess’ like her ended up. It was his pride and his joy, and his home, from the room she’d apparently torn apart to the peeling blue paint- _god, why was all the paint in this town peeling?_ \- that bore his and the bar’s name.

‘ _€900, 10 days. You’ll have it, I swear.’_ The promise to the creditor from the morning visit echoed ominously in his head.

He really, _really_ hoped he wasn’t making a mistake.

Blondie- he should probably learn her name- stumbled out the door and down the steps, dragging her case behind her. She looked vaguely ridiculous- he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen someone in Dingle in a suit, never mind high heels. Octavia, Monty and Jasper tumbled out after her, all wearing identical smirks.

He climbed out of the car and leaned against it to watch her. ‘What’s your name?’

She looked surprised. ‘My name? It’s, uh, Clarke. Clarke Griffin.’

He nodded. ‘Bellamy Blake,’ he told her gruffly. ‘Hop in, Princess.’

She stopped struggling with the handle of her pull-along to scowl at him. ‘I literally _just_ told you my name.’

He shrugged, the picture of nonchalance.

When he said nothing, she huffed and rolled her eyes. Then, apparently, she registered her ride for the first time.

‘Please tell me that this is the car taking us around the corner to the actual taxi.’

Bellamy looked affronted, ignoring Octavia’s snort. ‘She’s a classic,’ he rapped on the roof, ‘rock solid.’

Clarke did not look convinced. She peered in the open windows, and then slung her bag in the passenger seat. ‘None of those fancy air bags to get in the way.’ She straightened, and looked at him expectantly. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Ah, sure.’ Bellamy pushed off the car and took the handle of the pull-along from her, shaking it none-too-lightly to try and get it to slot into place. ‘How the bloody hell does this work?

‘Thank you,’ she said, peering over his shoulder and watching. ‘Can you be careful with that? It was a gift from Finn.’

‘Your boyfriend?’ She nodded when he looked up. ‘He bought you a suitcase?’

Clarke looked bewildered. ‘It’s a Vuitton.’

Since she was looking at him so expectantly, Bellamy thought there was something he was probably missing about this proud statement of hers. ‘A what?’

Now she just looked disbelieving, perhaps a little panicked, at his ignorance. ‘A _Louis_ Vuitton. Come on.’

Bellamy made an exaggerated ‘Oh’ face. ‘Oh, _of course!_ How silly of me!’ He finally got the handle down, and he bowed mockingly to the outrageous thing. ‘Can I give you a hand, Louis? Do you need anything, Louis?’ She huffed, and almost tripped over Molly, Monty’s black cat with an apparent penchant for princessy high heels. ‘Of course she names her suitcase.’

Monty himself spoke up. ‘Can’t start a journey when you see a black cat. 10 years bad luck.’

Jasper threw his head back, and then obviously regretted it. He looked a little blearier-eyed than the others. ’15 years, genius. And it’s a magpie, not a cat.’

Clarke smiled at them, not entirely sincerely. ‘Then I guess it’s a good thing I don’t believe in luck.’ She tucked herself into the passenger seat and arranged herself neatly.

Octavia smirked, meeting Bellamy’s eyes and winking. ‘Maybe you’d better, getting into that piece of junk.’

Bellamy rolled his eyes. _I’m the one who needs the luck_. He got back into the car and started the engine again.

Monty and Jasper stuck their heads through Clarke’s window, cheeks pressed together and grinning.

Octavia shouted over their heads, putting on a booming old man voice and exaggerating her accent. ‘May the road rise up to meet ya!’

Bellamy smiled despite himself. ‘Bye, O, you two.’ Clarke waved cheerily, and he pulled off.

The trio stood watching them go in silence.

Jasper shook his head.

‘God, they’re gonna kill each other.’

 

They hadn’t even been driving for what felt like ten minutes before Clarke started talking. Bellamy pulled the sandwich he’d made out of his pocket and started chewing it noisily.

‘Okay, so, I’m here on the road. It’s only the 27th, I’ve still got time, I’ve got two days. Where are we now, Bellamy?’ He grunted, mouth full of food. ‘Urgh, you are so disgusting’- at this, he did smile- ‘ooh, I might even get there before the shops close. I could get some shopping in!’

Bellamy glanced at her and sighed internally, his curiosity winning out. ‘Is that why you’re going to Dublin, to go shopping?’ _Girls_ , he thought, and then regretted it when an imaginary version of his sister whacked him.

Clarke looked appalled. ‘ _No_. If you must know, I’m going to visit my boyfriend.’

‘Ah, Louis’ Finn.’

Clarke looked like she was battling annoyance and wanting to brag about her perfect little guy. ‘He’s a cardiologist, you know. He’s here for a medical conference.’

Bellamy stayed silent, obviously awed by this news.

‘We’re applying for the most amazing apartment together, actually.’

Nothing. She bit her lip.

‘I, er, thought he might propose the other night.’ Bellamy’s eyebrows shot up, and he made a noise through his sandwich that obviously encouraged her. ‘But obviously not. So, yeah, you guys have this great little tradition that a woman can propose to the man, every four years, on February the 29th-‘

Bellamy swallowed his laughter with another bite. ‘Yeah?’

This spurred her on and she beamed. He felt a little pang in his stomach at her sunny face, surrounded by the light shining through her golden hair.

‘Uh-huh! So I thought, why not?’ She looked at him, and if he didn’t think the thought was stupid, he’d swear she was awaiting his approval.

‘Woo!’ He managed through his food.

Her face was incandescent, and in a quiet little corner of his mind, Bellamy put together her sunshine hair with her sky eyes and that smile- carefree and silly and actually kind of _glorious_ \- and stored it in the little box he tried not to think about, that if he tried to look at would be labelled something Octavia and Monty would coo at and Jasper scoff. He had to admit, he understood why her boyfriend had looked at her twice, at the very least.

‘Woo!’ She shouted, blonde hair flying, ‘yeah, woo!’ She laughed happily.

He swallowed gleefully ‘That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.’

Her face fell, and his egg sandwich felt oddly like it had curdled in his stomach (and that was even more ridiculous).

‘What? No, it’s not!’

He nodded, laughing. ‘Yeah, it is.’

‘No! It’s tradition, a really romantic one.’

He shook his head, and dragged out the one syllable of ‘Nooooooooo’ until she frowned. ‘it’s desperate women trying to trap a man that clearly doesn’t want to get married.’

For a second, there was that blissful silence he’d been missing, and then his sandwich was gone, ripped from his hands and tossed carelessly out the window. 

He didn’t think there’d ever been a more toxic glare in all of Ireland, but they must have them worse in America, because she only laughed that jubilant laugh again. He reached over, and savagely twisted the volume way, way up.

Another blissful second. And then something else thrown out the window. But this time, it was his Artic Monkey’s CD, and-

‘No one touches the music!’ He shouted, and he couldn’t remember anyone ever making him so mad so fast, except maybe teenage Octavia. ‘Are you crazy?’

She ignored his question- _answer enough, bloody hell_ \- and seemed unconcerned by his anger. ‘You know nothing about me or Finn! You know what you are, you’re just a cynic! A lonely, mean cynic!’

‘Better than an idiot,’ he sneered. ‘Better than a _Princess_.’

She practically bared her teeth, and her spirit was back, burning the uppity Princess away. ‘Don’t call me that!’

Bellamy shrugged. ‘Just ask Cinderella, Princess. If the shoe fits…’

Her eyes glowed with anger. ‘I. am. not. a. princess.’

_Exactly_ , he thought, and then shook it off. ‘Whatever you say, Blondie.’

She gave a little scream, and threw her body back in the seat. ‘You know what, I’m not paying you to talk anyway.’

‘Fine by me, Princess.’ If looks could kill, he’d be dead. But he’d be a very, very smug corpse.

And then Bellamy focused properly on the road ahead again, and groaned internally. _This is going to be a fucking disaster_.

Clarke was staring resolutely out the side window, but she looked round when she felt the car slowing. ‘What are you doing? Why are we- oh, shit.’

‘Yep.’ Bellamy popped the ‘p’ like a five year old. ‘Cows’.

He grabbed an apple, and uncoiled his legs from their cramped position behind the little wheel. Clarke sat, open-mouthed, in her seat, and watched his walk around the bonnet, between the car and the group of cows congregating in their path.

And then the apparent shock passed and she was out after him in her spiky shoes. He propped himself up on the wall bordering the road to watch her.

She stood there, looking about as out of place as it was possible for anyone to look in her sleek outfit and perfect hair, arms waving at him like he’d spaced out. ‘Aren’t you going to do something?’

‘I am doing something’, he said, taking another large bite of his apple, ‘I’m waiting for the cows to move.’

‘Fine.’ Clarke’s arms fell to her sides with a slap. ‘I’ll just do it myself.’ Bellamy could hear her muttering to herself about _men_ and _the Irish_ and even _stupid curly hair_ as she turned to face the cows, and it only fuelled his smirk.

She slowly eased her way up to the herd, at least knowing not to run at them. ‘Okay, look,’ she started, gesticulating wildly at the cows as if they knew her complicated sign language for ‘please move out of my way.’  ‘I have spent 24 hours in every level of hell, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll move.’

To Bellamy’s genuine pleasure, they started to shuffle, mooing loudly in protest.

‘Comes as a real shock to find out that you speak fluent Cow.’

Clarke turned only to narrow her eyes menacingly at him before patting the cow nearest to her lightly on the rump.

‘Come on, let’s move!’

Bellamy sniggered, unable to help himself. ‘Why don’t you _propose_ something to them?’

She ignored him. ‘Come on, Cow, that’s it!

‘Oh yeah, they’re moving now.’ He commented drily. ‘Must be your personality.’

‘Well, if that’s what it is, maybe _you_ should try.’

‘Oh,’ he tilted his head and smiled tightly, ‘but you’re doing such a good job.’

The cows were picking up speed now; Bellamy imagined sauntering back into their field would seem like the easier option when chased by a crazy American in high heels. He made a note of the response for future reference.

‘That’s it, that’s it, girl! That is how you get things done! You don’t just sit around like some lazy, backwards hermit, _waiting_ for things to work out for you.’ She started to march back towards him, looking very self-satisfied.

_Not for long_. ‘Watch out,’ he called, just as she stomped right into a large, still steaming, pile of cow poo. His laughter burst out of him, freer than it had been in a long time, surprising him.

She stared up at him, half appalled and half genuinely upset. ‘These are $600 shoes!’

‘Shouldn’t have worn such expensive ones then.’

‘I didn’t know I’d be trekking through poo chasing after cows! If only you’d _helped_ me-‘

He indicated the offending shoes with his apple core. ‘Put them in the wash; they’ll be grand.’

She gaped at him, and now she was definitely just appalled. ‘The wash? The _wash_? You do not put theses shoes’- she lifted an ankle to shake it imperiously in his direction- ‘in the wash!’

She’d hobbled back to the bonnet of his car while she was scolding him, and began to try and use Baby’s grill to scrape some of the mess off.

He watched her with thinly veiled (who was he kidding, nothing was veiled about his humour) amusement, until the car gave a sharp, clicking groan, and started to roll slowly back down the hill.

Except it wasn’t going slowly for long.

‘Whoa, whoa!’ He shouted, his apple forgotten. ‘Baby!’

Clarke was sprinting after the car- somewhat impressively in those bloody shoes, his subconscious oddly noted- screaming at him. ‘What do I do? What do I do?’

‘Stop it!’ He yelled at her, racing to catch up. ‘Get in!’

Clarke fumbled with the handle on the drivers’ side, and gave a little ‘Oh!’ when it came off clean in her hand. She stumbled, dumbfounded. Bellamy threw himself onto the bonnet for a few seconds, trying desperately to drag the car to a stop with his boots, and failing miserably. ‘Baby, I got you!’

He slid off the bonnet at the car picked up speed, and raked his hands despairingly through his hair as he watched her descent. ‘Don’t hurt yourself, Baby!’ He knew his voice was embarrassingly anguished.

‘My bag is in there,’ Clarke said from his side, and he couldn’t even stomach a disparaging glare for her right then.

His little red car clunked all the way down the hill, bonnet flapping up and down and headlights flashing like an emergency warning in the sun. _This was an emergency, alright_. The hill levelled off, and with a resounding crash, she burst dramatically through the surrounding hedges, scattering the few birds resting nearby, and soared through the air. There was a giant splash, a spray of crystalline droplets, and it was over, Baby floating sadly in the middle of the shallow lake.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ Bellamy moaned, ‘Look what you’ve done.’

Clarke spluttered. ‘What _I’ve_ done?’

He spun to face her, face stormy. ‘You couldn’t just wait for the cows!’

‘You couldn’t just help me!’

‘It’s not coming out of my pocket; it’s bloody well coming out of yours!’

‘Like hell!’ Clarke cursed, ‘you’ll have to kill me before I give you anything.’

Bellamy stepped into her space and looked down on her. ‘Now there’s an idea.’

Clarke’s blue, blue eyes shot daggers at him, and then she bent to tug off her shoes and turned to wade into the lake, after the bloody suitcase, no doubt. Bellamy watched her wrestle with the boot and yank it open, pulling out Louis and his overnight bag to throw to him. She sloshed to the front window and reached in to grab her bag, securing it over her shoulder before carefully coming back to him.

_Even in this stupidest of all situations_ , Bellamy supposed, chuckling to himself, _at least she still wants to look professional._

Lost in his thoughts, he almost didn’t notice as she swept past him and started back up the hill, Louis and all.

‘Wait, where are you going?’ He called after her, following.

‘Dublin,’ she shouted mulishly, without turning around.

‘Wait, wait, wait,’ he shouted, jogging a little to catch up and putting a hand on her shoulder. ‘All we need to do is find a garage, call a tow truck, and we’ll be back on the road in no time. Just, cool it.’

She peered down her nose at him- somehow- and shook off his hand, carrying on on her little mission.

Bellamy sighed, watching her power up the hill like the devil himself was after her, hills or no.

_Not the devil_ , he thought darkly as he trudged after her, _just Bellamy glutton-for-punishment Blake._

 

 

 

 

 


	4. like something a leprechaun would hoard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took so long to update! been a crazy couple of weeks...  
> anyway, hope you enjoy! :)

The first few miles of walking behind her, Bellamy smirked continually.

He had no way of knowing exactly, but he thought it was around mile seven that it started to slip. You could only stare at the back of someone’s head for so long, and not start to feel creepy. And Clarke was apparently just as stubborn as he was, her posture ramrod straight and her stupidly posh suitcase rattling along behind like it was no effort at all. But he’d lifted the bleeding thing himself, and he knew it was heavier than it looked.

God, even the repetitive _click-clack_ of her heels was starting to drill annoyingly into his head.

At least the scenery was something to look at. Bellamy couldn’t hide his appreciation for the rolling green hills of his home, gently undulating under the horizon in soft waves of warm, mossy green. There was a reason Ireland was the Emerald Isle. But he was under no illusions about a matching blue sky; the perfect landscape was shadowed by the heavily pregnant sky, grey with rain that hung in the air. The threat of a downpour dampened his mood even further, but the dankness buoyed his dark curls even more, coiling wildly after the hills in all directions.

 _I’d like to see_ her _stay perfect in an Irish shower._ He thought savagely, muttering under his breath and kicking stones just lightly enough that they’d never reach her. Louis the Suitcase had better watch out, though.

_Wonder how waterproof fancy suitcases are. Wonder how waterproof angry American blondes are._

Bellamy cocked his head as the sun peered weakly through a crack in the cloud cover and hit upon Clarke’s head, like even Mother Nature thought she deserved a spotlight. _Although, it does look strung with gold in the light, like something a lephrechaun would hoard at the end of a rainbow somewhere. And I bet it’d feel like silk sliding molten through your fingers…_

Bellamy shook himself, his smirk now totally lost and his frown cemented. He sighed loudly, deeply and deliberately. Clarke stiffened minutely, but he had to keep at it four more times before she stomped to a halt and spun to face him, blue eyes bright all of a sudden. And flashing with anger, he realised.

‘Are you still following me?’ She glared at him, so he stopped too, facing off with her like they were about to fight. _Maybe we were._ But he only snorted in response to her stupid question; she’d obviously known he was there. She might be ridiculous, but she wasn’t deaf to his mumblings.

‘Well, can you not?’

He smiled coolly at her. ‘Said I’d take you to Dublin, didn’t I? I’m a man of my word.’

She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like her telling him exactly what he could do with his word.

‘Really,’ she emphasised through gritted teeth, ‘I’ll be fine without you. More than fine, actually.’

He didn’t move. ‘Not getting rid of me that easily, Princess. We’ve got my baby to rescue, and you’ve got a bill to pay.’

She huffed angrily and flounced off. Feeling immensely cheered, Bellamy started whistling, mostly because he knew how much it’d annoy her.

It was a maybe another mile of her tense shoulders and his out-of-tune Irish jig before they both heard it, the distant rattle of an engine cresting the hill they’d just conquered themselves. It was a welcome sound, although the van sounded like it’d struggled with the climb more than they had.

Clarke turned just as the van reached them, and immediately launched into a run that was impressive given her stilettos, waving her bag in the air.

‘Wait!’ She called, ‘please, wait!’

Bellamy rolled his eyes. ‘Jesus, Princess, you’re trying to hitch a ride, not land an aeroplane.’

She spared him the sharpest of glares, but traded it for a sugary-sweet smile when the van slowed to a stop on the side of the road and the door slid open.

Bellamy caught up to her and touched her arm briefly. ‘I wouldn’t get in there if I were you.’

This time, she didn’t even glance at him when she shook him off, already striding off towards the driver of the van, who, with his deep-set, beady eyes and long nose, reminded him of the rats he’d sometimes meet putting out the rubbish at the bar.

He sighed. ‘Clarke.’

She whipped her head around so fast, her hair slashed the side of his face. ‘And I care about your opinion why, exactly?’

He blinked, and her face was radiant again.

‘Alright there, love?’ Rat-face called. ‘Looking for a ride?’

Bellamy felt the tension leave Clarke’s body instantly, and she practically swooned forward into Rat-face’s arms. He scoffed, and she ignored him.

‘I am, actually, to Dublin. Could you-’

Rat-face interrupted her, and Bellamy bristled. ‘Ah, fair Dublin city, where the girls are so pretty! I’m heading there meself, sweetheart.’ He swung the door to the back of the van open, revealing two more gappy-toothed men leering at them. ‘Can I help you with that?’

‘Oh!’ Clarke gasped prettily, as if surprised by such apparent chivalry. It was almost painful for him to watch. ‘Thank you!’ Her charming façade dropped when she tilted her head pointedly at him. ‘And I didn’t even have to ask.’

Rat-face hefted the case with a grunt, and swung it neatly into the van at his friends’ feet. ‘Nice suitcase, love.’ He patted it and grinned toothily. ‘Quality. You can tell that just by looking at it.’

Clarke’s face infused with so much smugness that Bellamy rolled his eyes and tamped down on another warning.

‘Well, Bellamy, I’d say it’s been a pleasure, but I think we’d both agree-‘

The van’s engine roared to life again, and Clarke faltered, her sky eyes clouding. She stepped forward, arms outstretched, but it was too late.

‘Wait!’ She called, her voice cracking and her heels clacking as she tried to give chase. ‘Come back here- you can’t just-‘

 _Apparently_ , Bellamy thought, _her entreaties work better on cows than rats_.

_And Bellamy Blakes with bills to pay, obviously._

They both stood for a moment, staggered apart and silhouetted against the quiet countryside. The van chugged off, sluggishly but too fast for either of them to catch. Clarke was positively incandescent with rage. Her whole body bristled, her fingers twitched without Louis to pull, and even her golden curls seemed to twist in anger.

 _Medusa come to life_. (Bellamy held back a smirk at the thought). _Don’t look into her eyes._

He whistled again, and slowly swaggered past her.

And he was right; her eyes burnt a hole across his broad shoulders every step of the way.

 

**********

Clarke had stopped stomping a while back, when her legs ran out of energy. Anger, however, still fizzed through her veins.

Her irritatingly cheerful and irritating long-legged companion had pulled ahead and, she assumed, already made himself at home in the little bar she’d _finally_ come across, nestled quaintly in the crease between two more hills. Despite the snake of smoke tufting up along the valley walls, the smell of beer was getting stronger the closer she stumbled. _Man, but she was thirsty_.

The door to ‘Big Tom’s’ croaked open when she pushed against it. The first thing she saw was a wide bar, a shaggy-haired man in a bright red sports top tending to it with his back to her. The second was one Bellamy Blake, deliberately sat facing the threshold she’d just crossed, booted legs spread wide and grin even wider, dark eyes glinting over his frothy glass.

‘There you are.’ If it was possible, his smirk grew.

She closed her eyes briefly, drawing goddamn patience from somewhere _really_ deep down. The strength she drew she sent straight to her eyes, envisioning lasers. _Steely blue, thy name is Clarke Griffin_.

Bellamy leant forward, and his expression softened. ‘Look, soon as I finish this, I’ll call us a tow truck.’

Clarke smiled icily. ‘There is no us, Blake. I’m calling myself a _real_ taxi, and you- you can leave me alone.’

His eyebrows disappeared into his mane. ‘Whatever you say, Princess.’

She caught a bar stool, and leaned against it, slapping her bag on the bar and leaning over. She squinted at the jumble of letters naming the bartender’s back.

‘Um, excuse me?’ She tried, ‘E-og-han?’

He turned around, clearly tired of her attempt already. ‘It’s like ‘Owen’.’

She smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry. Um, do you have a phone? Please say that you do. You wouldn’t _believe_ the day I’ve had, couple of days actually-‘

Eoghan stared blankly at her, and tilted his head slowly at a payphone tucked in the corner in a clear dismissal. She thanked him quietly and rummaged in her bag for some change. She studiously ignored the smirking man watching her approach the phone, currently in use by some Irishman in a flat cap. She tried her winning smile again, but he just frowned and turned away, jabbering away in an accent so thick he might as well have been speaking a different language.

She sighed, turning to search the bar for the furthest place from Bellamy to sit. It was dark- probably not the cleanest bar she’d ever been in- and she was fairly sure she was the only woman in the place. In fact, Bellamy seemed the least suspicious-looking of all the bar’s patrons, or the youngest at least. She edged a little closer to him despite herself.

She was about to sit down when she heard a nasal laugh that made her blood run even colder. To her left, a door was proper ajar, and through the crack, she could see three men sat around a weathered table. Topped- she wasn’t sure if it was luckily or not- with a suitcase that looked very familiar.

‘Louis,’ she murmured, and shoved the door the rest of the way open. The men looked around in surprise, pausing in rummaging their beery paws through her clothes. One dangled a shoe from his hand, stiletto heel clenched in his meaty fist. And was that _her bra_ on his _head_?

Just like that, her fire came rushing back. She stormed into the room, and snatched her shoe back, shoving her belongings back into the case and attempting to shut it over the bulging contents.

‘How nice of you to look after my case for me,’ she bit out, savagely yanking the zip and ignoring the way her heart was pounding at their sly sneers. ‘But I think I’ll take it back now.’

The skinny one who’d spoken to her on the road scoffed, and knocked her hands away roughly. ‘I don’t think so, sweetheart.’

She looked around at them all, suddenly aware of how alone she was and that she _definitely_ was the only woman in this room. She hated the tiny shake in her voice, and puffed out her chest.

‘I’ll- I’ll call the American ambassador!’

He pulled the bra from his head and stretched it so it pinged and flew off. ‘Oh, is this his?’

Clarke snatched it out of the air and scowled. She balled it up into her hand furiously.

‘How _dare_ you-‘

‘Careful, sweetheart.’ His eyes narrowed, and the three of them advanced slowly on her. Her neck prickled a warning. ‘You’re all alone out here.’

‘Are you _threatening_ me?!’ Clarke hated the shrill twang to her voice- not that now was really the time to worry about it.

All three men sneered in unison, as if they shared a brain. _Probably do_ , Clarke thought bitterly.

‘Uh, uh, uh’ the skinny one tutted, and Clarke thought randomly that there was something almost rodent-like about the way he looked down his nose at her.

‘That’s enough,’ Bellamy’s voice was quiet but weighty, and Clarke had never been so glad to hear someone. ‘Fun’s over, boys. Give the girl her stuff back.’

The leader didn’t seem to take that well to his advice, snarling. ‘And who the bloody hell are you?’

Bellamy held both his hands up and stepped forward, subtly angling his body between Clarke and the men in a way that they didn’t notice but she couldn’t miss. She felt a wave of genuine warmth for him and his mile-wide shoulders. ‘Just trying to keep the peace.’

‘Yeah, well,’ he spat, ‘you can keep your peace.’ And he launched forward, throwing himself at Bellamy.

To his credit, Clarke had never seen anyone react so fast. Bellamy’s head whipped sideways, and his hands smacked him away with what looked like no effort at all. He spun to face the other two, grabbed the first by the front of his shirt and shoved him inelegantly to sprawl across the pool table on the other side of the room. He paused for a second to smirk at Clarke, and she almost laughed, giddy. And then the leader was back, jumping on Bellamy’s back and sending them both tumbling to the ground.

Clarke spun around at the approach of the third guy, chunkier and shorter than the other two and with a face all the meaner for it. She held up her stiletto like a weapon and he growled. Moving quicker than she’d have thought he could, he ripped it from her hands and a cry from her throat, and seized her wrist tightly, twisting her arm sharply and pulling her back roughly against him. Clarke heard Bellamy gasp her name from somewhere below and behind and- _dammit, she wasn’t going to be a damsel in distress-_ she grabbed the beer from the table pressing into her hip that she thought might actually be the chunky guy’s- _wouldn’t that be a cool move?_ \- and tossed the drink over her shoulder into what she hoped were his eyes and _not_ just her hair. At the same time, she stomped her heel onto the arch of his foot and he howled, spitting and letting her go to spin around. Her hair whipped round, spraying little drops of beer everywhere, and she bared her teeth.

‘That’s for Louis,’ she snapped, and kicked her knee up into Chunky’s crotch.

Bellamy laughed behind her, and she whirled around again, fists up. The skinny leader sat on the floor, slumped against the pool table and holding his sleeve to his bleeding nose, but the other was nowhere to be seen.

Bellamy rested his hands gently on her fists and nudged them back to her sides. His smile was soft and playful and eased the tightness in her chest just a little. _Gratitude, obviously. It was only gratitude._

‘Impressive, Princess,’ he teased, ‘apparently Louis’ got quite the protector.’

And her heart suffused traitorously with warmth.

‘Out.’

Eoghan stood in the doorway, his face stony and his bulk impressive without a bar in between them.

Bellamy shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’

Clarke’s heart sank right back into her stomach. ‘Can I just-‘

Eoghan glared at her, and it made Bellamy’s look like childish teasing.

She looked down. ‘I’ll just, er, get my things and go.’

She swept her things back into her case, zipped it up, and hurried after Bellamy.

She didn’t want to be left behind.


	5. the forecast said sunny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they find a castle, miss a train & end up kind of married

Bellamy imagined that how he felt when he finally saw the train station tucked in the neat crease between two hills up ahead was pretty damn similar to how it would feel to spot an oasis after a long, _long_ trek though the desert.

Clarke was exhausting.

Something seemed to have thawed slightly between them since the incident at the pub, and they walked shoulder to shoulder, Louis between them like a small child. For the first time, the silence felt comfortable. Friendly, even, but Bellamy wasn’t sure he wanted to go that far just yet.

Clarke let out a little gasp next to him, and tension seemed to drain out of her limbs one by one and puddle at her feet.

‘ _Bellamy,’_ she sighed, and he blinked, _but only at the sun in his eyes, nothing else_ , ‘look!’

He was, indeed, looking.

‘Do you see what I’m seeing?’

He snorted softly, but without any sharp edges. ‘It’s not a mirage, Princess. Looks like your ride’s here.’

She beamed at him, and picked up speed until she was practically skipping. Even he had to admit it was an impressive feat in stilettos.

The train station was deserted, except for the ticket man behind his desk and his sheepdog. Bellamy knelt to scratch the dog between her ears, cooing softly at her and trying not to listen- too obviously at least- to Clarke pouring out her life story. He did have a kindly sort of face, deep-set green eyes wrinkled with laugh lines. His was obviously the face Clarke needed to see anyway, since darling Finn wasn’t around, and his clearly didn’t cut it. His stomach squelched.

‘Really, I just need to be on the next train to Dublin,’ she finished, and smiled winningly. Bellamy felt a pang of sympathy for the ticket man; he knew exactly how it felt to be blindsided by Clarke and her golden charisma. He was starting to wonder how Finn was able to resist her, especially since she so clearly _wanted_ him to propose.

The ticket man told her the time of the train’s arrival and handed over a ticket, patting her hand fondly. Clarke thanked him, and he snapped his attention back to the dog rolling on her back under his fingers. If only Clarke was so easily calmed.

She folded herself onto the bench on the platform, and after a moment, he collapsed next to her. She stared expectantly along the empty tracks, as if she could summon the train like a magic trick. He didn’t want to tell her she was facing the wrong way.

‘Ballycarbery.’

Clarke tore her eyes away, and looked at him warily. ‘Same to you.’

He ducked his head to hide a smile, and immediately felt stupid. ‘Ballycarbery Castle,’ he repeated, and if his voice was a little gruffer, it had nothing to do with her, or her blue, blue gaze. ‘It’s only fifteen minutes to the top.’

She gave him a look that kind of reminded him of being at school. ‘I don’t want to miss my train.’

‘Yeah,’ he sighed dramatically. ‘Two and a half hours. Time is going to _flyyy_.’

Her lips tilted at the corners, and then dropped as if she’d reached up to yank them down herself. ‘I’ll stay here.’

‘Suit yourself.’ He bobbed his head at her, realised it was a little too much like a bow, and strode off stiffly.

He heard her whisper a greeting to the dog at her side, and the dog clearly felt about the same as he did about Clarke’s baby talk, growling and yapping at her fingers. He stifled a laugh.

‘Bellamy!’ she called, and he heard her scramble after him.

‘Wait! I- er, love castles.’

He didn’t turn around, but he smiled, just a little.

They walked up side-by-side, returning to that companionable silence. Bellamy almost liked being around her when she was this quiet, as if they hiked around the Irish countryside exploring castle ruins all the time, and it was exactly what they were supposed to be doing. He gestured for her to climb a few steps set into the hillside first, and watched her move confidently and carefully, grudgingly appreciative of (and mildly fixated on) her wearing of her high heels like they were walking boots.

She paused, and he almost walked into her.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she breathed, and he had to agree. It wasn’t much of a castle these days, mismatched walls breaching the hill like an ancient stone jaw. It balanced precariously on the peak of the hill while still as permanent a part of the scenery as the horizon it shaped, and the jagged teeth of its crenellations scraped the clouds, as if trying to escape the hill’s mossy grasp. Bellamy tilted his head, tracing the way a stray ray of weak sunshine poked through what must have once been a gorgeous window to flash in his eyes. He tilted his head away, wincing as if he’d been inside all day (or was an Irishman unused to direct sunlight), and watched Clarke lean into the sun like it offered her warmth. _She was pretty beautiful too_ , his mind whispered, with her golden hair shining and her shadow keeping him out of the glare.

He coughed. ‘Sorry you aren’t going to get to Dublin before the shops shut.’

She frowned at him, but there was a light, almost teasing quality to it. ‘I do have other hobbies, you know. A life, a job, all that.’

‘Okay, then,’ he thought for a second, ‘riddle me this. If your house was on fire, and you had sixty seconds left, what would you grab?’

She glanced at him suspiciously.

‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘Would it be the Chihuahua on the duvet? The juicer?’

‘I don’t have time for this game,’ she started walking off again, looking persistently ahead.

He followed after her. ‘Oooh, the flames are licking up the stairs- WHOA, bottles of alcohol are exploding! Smoke _everywhere_ -‘

She spun to face him, hair swinging. ‘Go on then, what would _you_ take?’

He scoffed. ‘Oh, I know exactly what I’d grab.’

She watched him expectantly, blue eyes beguiling. He laughed. ‘I’m not telling you.’

She smirked teasingly, and poked him lightly on his arm. ‘Oh, so you can dish it but you can’t take it? I get it: Big Bellamy Blake, the baby.’

He raised his eyebrows slowly, holding her gaze. ‘You got it, Princess, I’m _very_ big, but I’m no baby.’

She rolled her eyebrows, and turned back to the ruins.

‘It’s really- really a castle.’

He grinned to himself and then fell pack into step beside her. ‘Told you.’

‘So, what’s the story with this place?’

He squinted up at the castle, even though the sun seemed to have disappeared. ‘Well, hundreds of years ago, there was this beautiful girl who was promised to marry this old guy, who was basically a cranky warlord old enough to be her father- grandfather. Anyway, she met this other dude and they fell _madly_ in love; what to do, right? So she slips a sleeping potion into everyone’s drinks, the night of her engagement party, and they ran away together. Her father puts this huge ransom on their heads, but the people of Ireland, they hid them in the barns, in the castles’- he gestured vaguely around them- ‘until one night-’ Clarke balked as they reached a narrow, uneven staircase set into the walls, and he instinctively reached for her hand- ‘come on, it’s perfectly safe, but anyway, she’s feeling pretty guilty about basically two-timing the old man’- he waggled his eyebrows at her, winked, and she giggled, she _giggled_ \- ‘so they didn’t, well, they didn’t _consummate_ their marriage. And then’- they reached the top, and he swept his arm out to indicate the impressive view- ‘they came to this castle, to this view. Unable to resist such beauty, here, they consummated their love.’

Clarke stared at him, wide-eyed and speechless. ‘Oh, my God.’

‘What?’

‘You’re hitting on me!’

‘What!?’ He felt like his eyes boggled out and his jaw dropped like a cartoon.

She put her hand on her chest, and then pointed at him accusingly. ‘I’m the young woman on the eve of her engagement who can’t resist a handsome stranger- you’re such a _nerd_!’

Bellamy shook himself and barked out a laugh. (He ignored the way his abdominal muscles flexed hearing her calling him handsome) ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Princess. The story’s true.’ He muttered under his breath. ‘Arrogant-‘

Her eyes sparked. ‘Arrogant _what_?’

 ‘ _American_ ,’ he emphasised darkly, and made it sound like the worst insult he could, even though he was kind of coming round.

She opened her mouth angrily, and a fat drop of rain _splatt_ ed itself right on the end of her nose. She looked so adorably surprised, that nature had _dared_ , that Bellamy laughed despite himself.

Before Clarke could interrupt him, something else did. The horn echoed through what was left of the castle walls, and Clarke was gone, waving her arms in the air and shouting at the approaching train.

Bellamy paused, looked at Clarke, looked at the train track far below, and judged the distance. He supposed if anyone could stop a train in its tracks, it might be her, but he didn’t think she’d make it outside of a movie montage.  

He followed her down the hill, mindful of the sudden rain slashing his face and soaking his clothes. Clarke wasn’t so careful, brandishing her ticket above her dripping head.

‘Wait! Wait, please!’ Bellamy supposed it was a testament to her (or her desperation, at least) that her voice rose above the honking of the train and the roaring of the weather. ‘I have a ticket!’

The bulk of the train, already blurred through the downpour, disappeared behind the silhouette of the small station. Clarke let out a small sob, and her shouting loudened impossibly, anxiety cracking in her voice.

And then, for the first time, she faltered. It seemed Ireland finally got the better of Clarke, and she slipped, tumbling to the ground. Her momentum didn’t let her stop there, and she rolled down the slope of the hill, back over front, head over heels. Bellamy started to chase after her, and then she slid to a stop, splashing dramatically into a muddy puddle. The train horn blared again, and Clarke groaned audibly.

Bellamy trudged towards her, and dipped the toe of his boot into the edge of her puddle. ‘Are you alive?’

She groaned again, and moved only to shove sodden hair out of her face.

He gave her a small smile, trying not to laugh. ‘Well that certainly speeded things up a bit.’ He offered his hand to her.

She batted it away, scowling. ‘I _hate_ you,’ she bit out savagely, and stumbled to her feet. She started to pick her way back down the hill, slightly more delicately but somehow angrily.

‘I think you’ve missed your train,’ he called after her.

‘Shut _up_!’ she shouted violently.

He followed a few paces behind her all the way back down the hill, replaying her fall in his head on a reel.

By the time he ducked back under the shelter of the station, the train was long gone, and Clarke was stood, staring mournfully at the gleaming tracks.

The ticket man stepped up next to her, and took off his cap as if to respect her grieving. ‘In the old days, I could’ve held it for you. It’s all ‘time is money’ these days.’

Clarke let out a single, wracking sob, and Bellamy jolted, reaching for her.

The ticket man got there first, and patting her gently on the back like she was his dog. Bellamy shrunk back. ‘Come on now, love. We’ll get you to where you want to go.’

He glanced over his shoulder, and met Bellamy’s eyes, hunched under his jacket. He shook his head solemnly.

‘Forecast said sunny.’

 

***

 

The friendly ticket man- whose name Clarke had now learned was Frank- swept out his arms broadly, as if indicating Buckingham Palace, or the Taj Mahal, or something on the Grand Canyon kind of spectrum. He was, in fact, signifying a small, picturesque cream cottage, honeysuckle curling around the red front door, warm brown shutters parenthesising the windows, and smoke winding slowly upwards. An inn sign creaked above their heads, and Frank beamed.

‘Here we are,’ he announced grandly, ‘the best little B & B in Tipperary.’ He ushered them through the red door, old-fashioned brass knocker clinking, murmuring ‘Come in, come in.’

A short, open-faced woman with cheeks flushed from the fire crackling behind her stood just beyond the threshold, and she smiled warmly when she saw what Clarke assumed was her husband.

‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ she teased, her Irish accent so broad and lilting that Clarke had to concentrate to understand her.

When she spotted the very bedraggled pair that Clarke and Bellamy made behind Frank, her face dropped in sympathy and she opened her arms to them, clucking compassionately.

‘Oh, my poor dears!’ she gushed, ‘look at you!’ She waved them towards the fire and bustled to set the kettle on the old-fashioned stove. Frank shrugged off his jacket, took theirs without fanfare, and went to kiss his wife on her cheek, quietly catching her up on Clarke and Bellamy’s sob story. _Or_ , Clarke thought, _my sob story_. _Bellamy was the villain really_.

Frank’s wife turned to them, looking appropriately appalled but welcoming. ‘You’re lucky, just half an hour ago I had two backpackers at the door wanting the room, but they weren’t married.’ She made a shocked, disapproving face that immediately got Clarke up to speed and, she hoped, Bellamy too. ‘Admitted it, right out. So’- here she shrugged like she had no other choice- ‘I kicked them out, rain or no rain.’

Clarke’s heart shuddered, and she tried to catch Bellamy’s eye slyly using her peripherals.

‘So,’ Frank’s wife continued, and looked at them cheerfully. ‘I’m Beryl. What are your names?’

 ‘Oh, um,’ Clarke stuttered, but Bellamy was already talking.

‘I’m Bellamy, and this is Clarke,’ he introduced, leaning forward charmingly to kiss Beryl’s cheek. (She flushed, appropriately Clarke thought). ‘Thank you so much for helping us out.’

Beryl smiled, but continued to watch them expectantly.

Clarke chipped in to say ‘Griffin-Blake,’ just as Bellamy added ‘Blake-Griffin’. Clarke groaned internally. She seemed to do that a lot lately, especially since Bellamy had barged into her life.

Beryl looked understandably confused and Frank frowned. Clarke tried not to do the same, and laughed lightly, trying not to show her nervousness.

‘We’re not long married,’ Bellamy explained, and his bashful smile in Clarke’s direction would have weakened her knees if it wasn’t for the warning fire in his hidden glare. It scared her that she could read his face so well. ‘I come from a long, long line of Blakes.’ He tugged Clarke against him, and she gritted her teeth through a smile. Beryl practically swooned. ‘We’re praying that one day we’ll be able to have an heir, many, many more Blake-Griffins.’

Beryl sighed, and leaned her head on Frank’s shoulder. ‘Lovely,’ she cooed. ‘But, look at you! I’m so sorry; let’s get you to your room.’

Bellamy turned back to Clarke and squeezed her hand only a tiny bit too hard. ‘After you, pickle.’ He smiled, sickeningly sweet.

‘Oh, thank you, sunshine,’ she simpered, and tucked Louis’ handle away.

‘Would you like a hand with the bag, pumpkin?’

Clarke passed him the suitcase, and when Beryl’s head had disappeared up the staircase ahead, she turned back to him.

And this time, his eyes were laughing too.

 

***

 

They stood, a few feet away from each other, staring each other down pitilessly. _Pistols at dawn_ , Clarke thought randomly, and suppressed a giggle.

It was as if they were separated by a canyon, a net, a battlefield. Not, in fact, a double bed.

‘You,’ Clarke began, in a low, deep voice, ‘are not sleeping in that bed with me, Mr Griffin-Blake.’

Bellamy folded his arms, and looked down at them, smiling slightly and shaking his head patronisingly. ‘Mrs Blake-Griffin, _you_ are not sleeping in there with _me_.’

Clarke scoffed. ‘What happened to chivalry?’

Bellamy leaped onto the bed, and arranged himself with his arms behind his head. His biceps bulged; Clarke swallowed; Bellamy smirked.

‘You lot wanted the vote,’ he wiggled his fingers dismissively at her. ‘Live with it.’

Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly, and then she dug a coin out of her pocket. ‘We’ll flip for it,’ she announced decisively.

Bellamy sighed but bounced back to his feet, on her side of the bed this time. Clarke glared at him, towering over her. _You will not be intimidated into sleeping in the bath, Clarke Griffin_.

He smiled, and she flipped neatly. ‘Heads I win, tails you lose.’

Clarke let her hair fall forward around her face while she peeked at the coin, but she could feel Bellamy watching expectantly. ‘Heads,’ she admitted flatly.

Bellamy smacked his lips together to make a fake sympathy sound. ‘Shame,’ he flopped back onto the bed, and spread his legs so he covered the entire quilt (beautifully sown, and colourfully homemade, Clarke noted). ‘You can sleep’- he did his little wave again, this time in the direction of the bathroom- ‘in the shower.’

Clarke pulled what she hoped was a scarily angry face. ‘Fine,’ she spat, and stomped to the bathroom, ‘as long as I don’t have to sleep anywhere near you.’

There was only a shower curtain between the room and the small bathroom, but Clarke yanked it shut so venomously she almost pulled it clean off. She arranged the few toiletries she’d grabbed from Louis in her strop to deliberately fill the entire shelf above the sink, grimaced at her reflection in the mirror, and fiddled with the shower settings. The ‘bathroom’ was more like an airport toilet, or something in a caravan Clarke imagined her father would like. The cabin was a small square, with a toilet and sink, and the shower head stuck out over the room, so you could actually sit on the toilet, brush your teeth, and shower all at once. Clarke winced imagining it, especially since it seemed like something Bellamy would consider a challenge rather than disgusting.

The water took a while to heat up, but when it did, she spent longer under the spray than she needed, keeping a close eye on her dry clothes just out of the drizzle’s reach. It’d been a long few days, and the hot water (the temperature vaguely surprised her, considering she felt like she was in the middle of nowhere, and not necessarily somewhere modern plumbing would reach) did a wonderful job on the knot of tension between her shoulders, along the length of her back, up and down her tired legs- everywhere, really. She tried not to moan. _And was it really devastating if there was no hot water left for Bellamy?_ Clarke thought, both bitter and dreamily relaxed, and then she banished thoughts of Bellamy. He wasn’t going to ruin the only me-time she’d had in a while.

And then, like a shock of lightening, it hit her.

She flung back the curtain, spraying water on the nearby carpet and clad only in one small towel wrapped around her body and one around her hair. Bellamy’s head popped up, and then his eyebrows shot even higher when he took her in.

‘You lying, deceiving son of a bitch!’ She stormed over to him, still tucking her towel ends in, and then started to hit him repeatedly, and not lightly. ‘Get up, get up, get _up_!’

‘What? What!’ he shouted, holding his hands up defensively.

_‘_ ”Heads I win, tails you lose”?’ she imitated in a shrill voice.

He smirked. ‘I was wondering when you’d get that.’

‘Get up, it’s my bed. Liars forfeit.’

Bellamy got to his feet slowly, dragging his body over as much of the bed as he could feasibly manage. ‘Nice shower?’ She ignored him. ‘You can see right through the curtain,’ he advised, as if he was a friendly confidante.

‘Oh, can you?’ She bit out sarcastically, and then looked up from where she was rummaging in Louis. ‘Can you?!’

She went to hit him again, and he ran into the bathroom, laughing loudly. ‘Liars forfeit, liars forfeit!’


	6. don't go bacon my heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things get better, hotter, then more awkward

‘For dinner, it’s tripe.’

Clarke liked the landlady of the quaint B & B she and Bellamy ( _or should she say, Mr and Mrs Blake-Griffin?_ ) had found themselves in, but she wasn’t sure she was a fan of their ‘open-door’ (read: barge in) policy. Especially when Bellamy was in the shower, and she was not only missing out on glaring at his outline through the thin curtain, but was without backup. _And_ it was about tripe, of all things.

Beryl patted her stomach, impressed with her own announcement. ‘Nothing like a bit of cow’s stomach on a rainy day.’

‘Tripe,’ Clarke nodded sagely, trying to hide her swelling disgust. ‘Did you hear that, darling?’ she called to Bellamy, ‘tripe!’

‘Oh,’ she heard Bellamy reply, bringing out that charming voice he seemed to reserve for Beryl and sheepdogs. ‘I was actually thinking we could cook for you tonight, to thank you for your hospitality.’

Beryl looked both immensely pleased and politely appalled. ‘We couldn’t let you do that.’

Clarke stepped forward persuasively, laying her hand reassuringly on Beryl’s arm like she imagined an Irish housewife might. ‘Oh, you could.’

Beryl considered, biting her lip. ‘We’ve got two Italians staying as well, would that be okay?’

‘Not a problem,’ Bellamy drawled confidently.

‘Thanks a million!’ Beryl lilted, and Clarke was starting to realise that most of what she said sounded like it ended in multiple exclamation points. She bustled out, with as little flourish as she’d come in.

‘Good call,’ Clarke said, turning to face Bellamy as he came out of the bathroom, haloed in steam like a shower gel advert. She went to say something else, but she gulped it down- gulped _a lot_ down- when she saw the broad, smooth expanse of tanned chest. Finn was the doctor, but she imagined the golden skin stretched over perfectly formed muscles, rippling magnetically as he moved confidently around the room, smirking. _Smirking_. Clarke snapped herself out of it, thinking of Finn. Finn the cardiologist, Finn whom she’d come all the way to Ireland to propose to, Finn of the white working-indoors-all-day skin.

She turned away- narrowly missing slamming face first into the doorframe- when she saw Bellamy slip underwear under the towel balanced precariously on his hips and _had she really fitted a towel that size around her?_

He yanked a dark green t-shirt over his head, and Clarke ignored the way the colour complimented his skin.

‘Come on,’ he called over his shoulder to her, heading out of the door _without even a moisturise honestly_ , ‘let’s go pick vegetables.’

Clarke hurried after him, hating that she followed him without a thought, like a doll who had none.

She was never going to follow for long, though, and she took charge of the recipe as soon as they got outside, pointing him and his raised eyebrows around Beryl and Frank’s impressive vegetable patch as imperiously, as _regally,_ as she could manage.

She sat herself down at the carrots, and finally channelled her pent-up frustration, at Finn, at Ireland, at Bellamy and everything else, into something productive: pulling up vegetables. She was comparing the length of three uneven, home-grown carrots and muttering when Bellamy strode up, all of the other vegetables tossed unceremoniously into the basket tucked under his arm.

‘What the hell are you doing now?’ he asked, resigned, his Irish accent suddenly broader.

Clarke barely glanced up at him, ‘Um, the, recipe says three medium carrots and these two’- she held up two slightly misshapen but undoubtedly medium carrots- ‘are obviously medium. But this one seems too large to be classed as-‘

Bellamy snatched the larger carrot out of her soil-covered hands and snapped the end off sharply. ‘There,’ he announced, his voice wavering on a smirk. ‘Three medium carrots.’

‘You know, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting to be precise,’ Clarke said defensively.

‘Well then,’ Bellamy cocked his head and watched her, ‘you must be very, _very_ precise. Tell me, when will you stop trying to control everything in the known universe? It’s dinner; have a little faith.’

‘Really,’ Clarke snapped, offended at being treated like a child, ‘you think I have it all worked out? My dad was the _king_ of ‘it’ll all work out’. Cut to me working two part-time jobs and us getting our house repossessed on Christmas, ho, ho, ho. So you’ll forgive me if this _Princess_ doesn’t.’

There was a pause. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured, and hauled out another unnecessary carrot.

Bellamy looked down at his shoes, and rocked back onto his heels. He peered at her from underneath his eyelashes. ‘No, I’m sorry. A father’s someone you should be able to rely on. Not that mine was, either.’ He scoffed. ‘Mine wasn’t much of anything.’

Clarke met his eyes, and maybe it was suffering the disappointment of parents who had always been a little bit fallible that sent a jolt of connection between them, and maybe it was something else.

‘Anyway,’ Clarke stood up and dusted the soil off her hands, ‘dinner. We’ve got cabbages, a leek, three _medium_ carrots…’ She smiled at Bellamy, and he actually returned it.

‘Not one of those vegetarians, are you?’ he asked, squinting at her face like he could read her thoughts if he looked hard enough. Clarke shook her head, blindsided by his apparent laser vision.  

‘Good,’ he strode off, inspected the small bunch of chickens in the coop, before bending down and reaching for one. Clarke had never particularly loved chickens, but when Bellamy stroked its neck once before briskly, sharply and brutally snapping it, even she blanched.

 _‘_ Coq au vin _?_ ’ he grinned winningly at her.

She gave him the most poisonous look she could muster, avoided looking at the chicken hanging limply in those powerful arms, and strode off.

He looked skyward. ‘Give me strength.’

He followed her into the kitchen Beryl and Frank had vacated for them, left the chicken just outside the door and rested the basket on the counter.

‘Don’t start telling me you’ve never had chicken stew before.’

Clarke glared at him. ‘Of course I have.’

He leant a hip against the counter. ‘I wonder where it is you think chickens come from.’

‘The freezer section?’ Clarke suggested lamely. Bellamy stared dumbly at her. ‘I know, I know. You just surprised me, that’s all.’

Bellamy blinked once, slowly and then passed her the three medium carrots. ‘Get your cook on, Princess.’

Clarke shook off her morbid mood, and started peeling and chopping the carrots. Bellamy took up a position mirroring her on the opposite counter, and started quietly dealing with the chicken. After a moment, Clarke broke the silence, not wanting to hear what Bellamy might be doing. ‘What’s cooking, good looking?’

She felt Bellamy pause, and she realised what she’d said. ‘I’m so _eggcited_ to try this,’ she hurried to add, and she felt him laughing almost silently behind her. She smiled, and relished the warm feeling soaking through her chest, chasing away the Irish chill like the shower had.

Clarke hummed a nothing tune to herself, and she could sense Bellamy thinking hard.

He coughed. ‘ _Omelette_ you in on a secret, Princess: this is going to be delicious.’

‘Don’t go _bacon_ my heart,’ Clarke sniggered, ‘I do _love_ coq au vin.’

This time he didn’t even hesitate. ‘Cheesus Christ, these are bad.’

‘Bitch, peas,’ Clarke couldn’t hold back her giggles and she snorted, ‘I could do this all day.’

Bellamy turned to face her, chuckling, his expression inexplicably fond. ‘Pass the cooking wine, Princess. I think we both need it.’

Cooking together in the tiny, warm kitchen was the first time Clarke realised that, when they put their minds to it, her and Bellamy made a pretty good team (and there wasn’t actually much thinking to do; it scared her how easy and natural it felt). They worked in almost perfect synchronisation, teasing and light-hearted, and when Bellamy offered the spoon to her over the bubbling pot, Clarke glanced at his warm, God, _heated_ , brown eyes, at his starspun freckles, and didn’t hesitate.

It was delicious.

And it was not so much that Finn popped into her head, but when she noticed that he hadn’t- _not once_ \- that she excused herself from the kitchen and busied herself setting the table, arranging some flowers from the garden and staging the cutlery, placemats and napkins like it was a banquet they were about to attend.

‘Are you an artist? Is that what you do?’ Bellamy said from behind, startling her. His tone was half teasing, half sincere.

She nodded, uncharacteristically shy, and tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘Sort of. It’s what I want to do, anyway.’

Bellamy nodded. ‘Looks good.’

It was getting harder to remember they hated one another.

 

***

 

Dinner seemed to go down well, regardless. Clarke struggled to imagine Beryl and Frank not being charmingly complimentary about it anyway, but the Italian couple, Marco and Bella, seemed just as enamoured.

‘Magnificent.’ Marco kissed his fingers like a chef, and rolled out the syllables in his sing-song accent.

Beryl smiled benevolently. ‘The chicken was lovely, wasn’t it?’

Clarke felt a little bit flushed, with both the compliments and the wine. ‘Normally, I’m so awful at chicken. Finn always says I make it too dry.’

Frank looked back and forth between Clarke and Bellamy. ‘Finn?’

Clarke’s pulse spiked. ‘Oh, um, Finn…’

Bellamy leaned forward and met her eyes smoothly. ‘Finn’s our next door neighbour. He sometimes comes round for dinner, lonely old soul, bit’- Bellamy whistled and twirled his finger by his head in the universal symbol for crazy- ‘tells everyone he’s a cardiologist.’

Clarke reached over and pulled his fingers down, squeezing tightly. ‘He’s harmless.’

‘Bless him,’ Beryl added softly.

There was a short silence. Clarke and Bellamy studiously avoided eye contact and tried to crush each other’s fingers.

Frank got to his feet and shuffled round the table to the cabinet behind his wife. He pulled out another bottle of red wine.  

‘Let’s crack into this; it’s an old baby.’ He winked at the table. ‘Our wedding wine.’

‘It’s only forty-four years, you cheeky rascal!’ Beryl teased, putting a hand on his arm affectionately.

‘Forty-four years, Jesus,’ Clarke heard Bellamy mutter quietly.

Frank beamed and bent to smack a giant kiss loudly on Beryl’s mouth. She laughed, and the Italians cheered good-naturedly.

‘See, that’s what it takes to be married for forty-four years,’ Frank advised, popping the cork on the wine.

‘The kiss,’ Marco nodded his agreement. ‘Always kiss like it’s the first _and_ the last time.’

Bella smiled. ‘First thing in the morning, last thing at night.’

‘The very last thing?’ Bellamy whispered, and Clarke allowed him a look and a tiny smile.

When she turned back, Marco had his large, tanned hands on either side of Bella’s face, and was leaning in adoringly. Bella looked like a rabbit that had never been so happy to be caught in the headlights.

They kissed, and it was like suction. Clarke felt Bellamy shudder, with either laughter or disgust, but even when she looked away, she could _hear_ it. Her chicken rebelled in her stomach a little bit; she didn’t think anyone outside of first-time teenagers kissed like _that_. Clarke couldn’t say whether the last kiss you’d have with someone would be a face-eating situation or not, but if it was, Bella and Marco were nailing it.

It went on for a while.

Beryl coughed awkwardly, and the pair came apart with a horrible, wet sound, wiping their mouths and looking flustered.

Frank smiled at Clarke, and then Bellamy. With a dull shock, she realised she should have seen this coming.

‘Well come on then, son.’ He patted Bellamy on the back. ‘Show us old ones how it’s done.’

Bellamy choked on his forty-four year old wedding wine. ‘What?’

Frank topped up his glass. ‘Well, I’ve kissed my wife.’ He blew another kiss at Beryl and she pretended to catch it. ‘Marco has certainly kissed his wife.’

‘Oh!’ Bellamy’s voice was thin. ‘No, we’re fine. We, er-‘

‘-did it earlier.’ Clarke supplied, and they waved their joined hands in the air anxiously.

‘Come on!’ Frank shouted, fist-pumping, and Clarke jumped. Her heart thundered so loudly she was surprised no one had asked where the bass music was coming from. ‘Give her a bit of thrill, man, you know what I’m saying.’

Bellamy ran his finger around the rim of his glass and cleared his throat. He pulled his hand from hers and the bass music paused.

But then he leant over, and kissed her, once, shortly, lightly, on her cheek. On her _cheek_. It made her acutely conscious of her stupidly, unnecessarily sweaty palms.

Frank banged his fist on the wooden table, and this time they both jumped. ‘If that was a kiss, I’m surprised you’re still wed to him at all!’

Clarke let out a reedy laugh.

Bella rested her head on Marco’s shoulder. ‘Oh, let them be. They’re shy.’ Clarke gave her a grateful look, but it was useless.

‘You’re among friends,’ Beryl reassured. ‘You’re young, married, _in love_ ; anyone can see that.’

Her words hit Clarke like a punch, and her instinct was to immediately turn to Bellamy, but, suddenly, it was impossible to look anywhere close to his direction. Only because they’d burst out laughing, _obviously._

‘Kiss the girl!’ Frank barked, and hit his hand again for emphasis.

And then Bellamy was there, his hands cradling her face and his lips against hers and everything in the world smelt and tasted and felt like him, _of_ him. They paused there for an infinitesimal moment, breathing, and Clarke knew he realised _exactly_ how truly, truly terrible this was. And then it changed, and Clarke wasn’t sure if it was her winding her hand into his poetic hair that pushed Bellamy over the edge or something else entirely, but suddenly they were both falling, _flying_ and Bellamy was kissing her harder and harder and she was kissing him fiercer and fiercer and she couldn’t seem to get close enough.

And then Bellamy pulled back, lifting his hands from her finger by finger and watching the process as if he couldn’t bear to meet her eyes. But she could still see the pulse pounding in his throat, and the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

She’d never made Finn look like that, like he’d been hit by a truck or fallen off a real cliff.

She felt sick. Finn.

What the hell was she doing?

She took a biggest swig of red wine she could manage, and felt Bellamy mirror her.

‘There you go,’ she heard Frank boom. ‘Perfect.’

The rest of the meal passed in a bit of a blur, and Clarke’s thoughts whipped round like she was on a merry-go-round. _I kissed Bellamy, Bellamy kissed me, Finn, Bellamy, Frank, Finn, Frank’s fault, my fault, Bellamy’s fault, Finn, Finn, Bellamy, Finn._

The sight of the double bed that the two of them had bickered over felt like a stone in her stomach, one that grew as soon as she realised that her and Bellamy were going to be alone together, all night, in their little room.

 _No_ , she thought sternly. _Bellamy and Clarke are staying in this room, but they left the Blake-Griffins downstairs._

And Bellamy was staying in the bathroom.

She changed quickly, into the most conservative pyjamas she’d brought, and cosied herself under the quilt. It smelt like lavender. _Or regret_ , Clarke griped, and then mentally slapped herself.

Just then, Bellamy popped his head from behind the curtain, his hands clasped together beneath his chin and his bottom lip stuck out like a child making puppy dog eyes.

‘It’s quite wet,’ he tried, and his wide, dark eyes and connect-the-dot freckles twisted Clarke’s sympathy, ever so slightly.

‘Show a little mercy, would you?’ He gazed earnestly at her.

Clarke sighed. ‘Okay.’ Bellamy yelped and bounded over to the bed, jumping in the space she’d left. ‘But one snore, and you’re back in the shower.’

Bellamy grunted happily, and they started to settle.

‘Who’d have thought it would take two days to get to Dublin?’ Clarke sighed sleepily.

‘It’s an extra €300 euro for the extra days, you know,’ Bellamy mentioned casually. ‘And that includes the damage to Baby and my psyche.’

Clarke scoffed. ‘€150, at the most, for that piece of crap.’

Bellamy flattened his hand over his heart and moaned dramatically. ‘Don’t you dare speak about my Baby like that. €200.’

Clarke growled as menacingly as she could manage.

‘€175,’ Bellamy acquiesced, and smiled winningly. _On the pillow next to hers_.

‘Fine,’ Clarke snapped, and flopped onto her back. ‘If it’s all about the money for you, then €675 it is. Goodnight.’

She could practically feel Bellamy frowning, and was sadistically glad that she’d confused him at the very least.

‘Good night, Princess.’

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for any mistakes, but hope you enjoyed it!  
> Come say hi on tumblr at here-isthedeepestsecret and instars-acrossthesky! :)


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